You'll (not) miss me when I'm gone
by Kakashiz
Summary: Hans is sent home after the events of Frozen, and is punished accordingly. Character study, one-shot, complete. Contains triggers for depression and suicide.


**A/N:** **It is my first time writing angst, so any comments on the accuracy/poignancy of it all would be greatly appreciated. Also please understand that what Hans thinks is not a reflection of what his family may truly feel, only that he suffers from depression and years of (possibly unintentional) neglect and it's what everything seems like to him in his current mindset. It is not okay to commit suicide, ever. Always seek help and counselling if necessary.**

"I am disappointed in you."

A tiny quirk of Hans' lips is the only thing that betrays his tightly-bound emotions, the overwhelming wave of bitterness that surges in his chest and throat at the King's words. It just figures that the only time he can successfully command his father's undivided attention is when he creates a big mess, an international scandal of nothing less than gigantic proportions. _That_ , Hans thinks with a sudden flash of manic humor, is what it takes for his own paternal flesh and blood to finally take notice of him above the rest of the Westergard brood. Treason, attempted murder and trying to overthrow another kingdom's monarch to claim her throne for himself. Nothing else outshines the shadow his twelve older brothers have cast. A naval commander, a military strategist, a fencing champion. A brilliant scholar, a renowned hunter, a successful businessman. There is nothing he, as the youngest son, can do that has not already been done by someone else in the family, nothing he can call himself best at ( _except for lying, scheming and manipulating_ , his mind supplies) – and because of that, because of his _mediocrity_ , his parents had little time or energy to spare for him, having spent all of it on their dozen other sons who have all shown more promise than the runt of the family. And most of his brothers, being boys and soon men with growing egos and male testosterone, took every opportunity to make the most of their father's favor; they mocked and bullied him relentlessly, sometimes even kicking and punching him where no one would see, making sure he remembered _exactly_ where his place was in the familial pecking order. Only one or two brothers he actually got along better with, and those were distant, rarely intervening when the rowdier boys decided to pick on the easiest target in the castle.

"I expected more of you. This is not the way you were brought up to be." The displeasure in King Anders's words are laced with a barely-there hint of disappointment. "You are a disgrace to the royal family of the Southern Isles and the House of Westergard, and unfit to bear the title of Prince. You are hereby stripped of your rank and title, and assigned to the stables under the instruction of the castle stablemaster. Use that time to reflect upon your grievous misdeeds."

Hans nods, murmurs his deference, but his thoughts are vehement, seething underneath the carefully constructed and frozen expression of respectful indifference. As the King of the Southern Isles, his authority is unquestionable even to his own sons, but as a _father_ , he has _absolutely no right_. No right to expect a perfect son when he had so conveniently overlooked Hans for most of his life, no right to berate Hans as if he had _actually_ played a part in his son's upbringing. It had always been books and nursemaids and more books – the Queen sometimes gave all her sons a goodnight kiss before bed, but aside from that there was not much of her time devoted to him, and the youngest prince tended to avoid the less-than-pleasant company of his brothers. Hans remembers a time before he sank into the bleak acceptance that he would always be the invisible spare, before his need to be acknowledged above his many (talented, handsome, charming, accomplished) brothers drove him to extreme lengths. He had tried to prove his worth, tried to command armies and fleets and lead hunts and plot strategies, but no matter what he did, one of his brothers could always do it better. It hurt him deeply whenever his father dismissed him in favor of an elder son, which was most of the time, and each time his seniors noticed the crestfallen expression on his face, they would rub it in like salt in a wound, jeering at 'Little Hans' for trying to bother Mama and Papa with silly attempts for attention. They would never play with him, but made him bear the brunt of their cruel games, silencing him with threats of bodily harm or damage to his precious possessions. _You can't do it as good as we can, Hansy-Pansy,_ they would sneer. _Oh look, crybaby Hansie is at it again. You cry like a girl, Hansie. Go away, we don't want to play with stupid runts. Don't you dare tell Mama or you won't see your precious toy horsie's head again._

Hans' jaw tightens imperceptibly as he shoves the memories away, schools his emotions, and refocuses his attention on his father – no, the _King,_ because this man is no father of his – as he hears out the rest of his sentence. He was sure, quite sure in fact, that at least one of his brothers was hidden away somewhere, eavesdropping as so to be able to gloat over his fall from grace as soon as possible, and Hans is not keen to run into any of them any time soon, or ever for that matter.

"No son of mine would stoop so low to scheming and plotting as if he were no more than a common criminal." The King's tone is grave and imperious as he slowly turns his back to Hans, and speaks to the gigantic tapestry adorning the wall behind the throne; this time, Hans can no longer make out any underlying love in the words. "As of today… I have only twelve sons."

Hans has told himself before this that he would not, _would not_ care what his excuse of a father decided on as a punishment. Has told himself time and time again, convincing himself that his father surely did not love him, for if he did, he wouldn't have left his youngest child to grow up in neglect, wouldn't have left him to fend for himself as if he were an inconsequential extra offspring that was neither wanted nor unwanted. He's tried to fight for a name and a place for himself, a chance to prove his worth and be seen and respected; and though he has failed to take Arendelle for his own, he regrets none of it, because he has _tried_ , the only way he knows how. But those words still wind him like a punch to the gut, and Hans chokes silently on the pain that rises so abruptly in his chest, fights to keep his eyes from watering over because _he is a prince and a man_ and _he will not be weak before his father-_

A knock sounds on the door of the throne room, and King Anders turns back, eyes skimming over Hans' form to rest on the closed door. "Come in."

A courier steps in, pauses, glances warily between the King and Hans. "My apologies for the interruption, Your Majesty… Shall I return later?"

King Anders waves a hand. "No need. What is the matter?"

As the courier hesitantly begins relaying a message from the dockmaster regarding incoming trade ships and trade agreements, the King makes a dismissive waving gesture at Hans. The younger man bites his lower lip – _dismissed so easily_ – and obediently steps out of the room, heading towards his room which will soon be relocated to the servants' quarters. Along the way, his path crosses with Lars, one of the few brothers with whom Hans actually got along with, once upon a time. The older brother shoots him a concerned glance, but Hans is in no mood for interaction, friendly or otherwise. He ignores Lars, and keeps walking.

* * *

In his frustration, Hans trashes everything in his room that he can break, hurling lamps and overturning tables with a roar of rage that soon dissolves into the helpless, anguished sobs of a broken man. He tears his coats and shirts and pants from his wardrobe, flinging them to the floor where they lie in haphazard heaps, crumpled and messy and _discarded_ , just like he is. He breaks everything he can, because everything in his room reminds him of a life he no longer has, and the destruction in his chambers grows until he has nothing left to throw, nothing left to pound his fist into. Lars comes by sometime during his rampage because surely everyone in the bloody castle can hear him scream, and leaves hastily when a flying inkwell misses his face by an inch. No one dares to bother him after that. When Hans finally sinks onto his bed, knuckles bleeding from where he had punched his reflection in the mirror, he is exhausted, his eyes are red, and tear tracks run messily from his eyes into his sideburns.

* * *

His belongings – as little as there is that he wishes to keep, and as little as there is left after his violent outburst in the privacy of his own room – are soon moved to his new quarters. It is small, shabby and drab, a far cry from the luxury afforded him as a prince, but he supposes that it doesn't matter anymore. Luxury and comfort no longer mean anything to him, when he has lost all that he had, his hope, his pride, his title, his very identity. Something seems to have broken inside him since his sentencing in the throne room – he no longer feels much more than a hollow emptiness where his heartbeat used to be. He starts work the very next day, and the stablemaster, with a nose wrinkled in distaste at the disheveled has-been prince, hands him a shovel and sets him to shovel horse manure, the one job that no one else wants to do. All of the Southern Isles know of his misdeeds and his sentence by now, and sometimes, Hans thinks that the infamy is worse than the actual punishment itself. The stableboys make a habit of shoving him hard as he works and laughing at him when he stumbles face-first into the foul pile, simply because they can, simply because they think he deserves it for his heinous crimes. Hans just remains silent at their name-calling and mockery, picks himself up, and cleans up as best as he can with a basin and a wet rag before resuming his work.

Hans wonders often if he's done something wrong in his past life. Was it wrong to crave love and validation from his family? Was it wrong to strive for greatness? And yet, instead of achieving his goals and living the life he so desired, here he is having his lungs filled with the stench of waste and his ears with the snide whispers of passing commoners. There are so many nights where he goes to bed after a day's hard work and lies awake staring at the ancient wooden rafters, the faint snores of the other servants and the skittering of mice his only company. The lingering smell of manure never truly fades from his fingers no matter how hard he scrubs them with scented soap, and he turns over in bed, vision blurring with tears he would never admit to shedding. What is the point of life, he wonders, if all there is for him since the beginning is failure and suffering? Should he be sorry simply for being born the thirteenth son? For being born at all? _Thirteen is_ , he thinks, _indeed an unlucky number_.

He leaves behind all his elaborately-tailored clothing, the reminders of his life as nobility that he will no longer need, all save for two things - his red silken cravat that his mother had given him on his eighteenth birthday, and the white gloves that he had worn during his trip to Arendelle. The cravat reminds him of the his mother's brief affections to him before she was yet again distracted by the demands of another son, something he had treasured to back then because it was the most attention he would receive for who knew how long; the gloves remind him what it was like holding the hand of Arendelle's most endearing princess. How she looked up at him, warm eyes open and trusting, how easy she was to charm and how she'd fallen into his arms like it was where she belonged all her life. He could've had that, at the very least – he could've had the unwavering love and attention of a sweet, pretty girl, someone who gave away her affections so easily, someone he could so easily have learned to love. He would have been second-best, again, if he'd chosen to court Anna – but he could have been _happy_. Instead he'd chosen to throw that away in pursuit of _more_ , of his father's recognition and the opportunity to best his brothers, to step up and take the opportunity to shine as the King of Arendelle. And he had gotten _so close_ , before he made a fatal mistake in his plan and it all fell through. And now Anna is wrapped in someone else's arms, someone else who takes care of her as if she's the whole world, someone who can love her the way she deserves. To Anna, Hans is no longer the charming prince who doubles as her 'true love' – he's just a sham, a liar, a would-have-been murderer. She must hate him now, not that he can blame her for it.

If Hans ever had a shot at happiness, the chance has long since bypassed him. Now, at this point in his life, he can say with certainty that no one will mourn his absence. Not that anyone ever did. Not the spare prince and son, the last in the line of far too many, the one who has no notable achievements worth speaking of. He wonders, time and time again, if there is even a place in the world for a pathetic excuse of a human being such as himself. Perhaps there was, at one point. Perhaps he could have found a different path if he could turn back time and do things differently. But he's quite certain that there's no longer anyone who wants him, after all that he's done. He had nearly killed two innocent girls in cold blood, and he knows in his heart that, at the time, he would have killed anyone else who had gotten into his way. He's just a traitor and criminal now, nothing more. The world has no need for scum like him.

He picks up his cravat, stares at it, the silken fabric a deep crimson and glistening as it pools in his hands. Red as blood, a collar to wear around his neck as if it were a reminder of the deaths which would have been on his hands should his plan have succeeded. _It belongs there_ , he thinks, _around my neck. How fitting_.

The moonlight shines in through the open window, and it is by moonlight alone that Hans stands up in a resolute decision, lower lip trembling as he reaches for a pen and a sheave of paper to write a final letter. Tears smudge the ink at the end of the letter when he finishes, the paper folded and addressed to the Queen and his brother Lars, the only people that Hans thinks may miss him at all, and the only ones whom he feels deserves an explanation. Setting the letter at his bedside where he's sure it will be seen come morning, he looks up at the wooden beams of the ceiling with his cravat clenched in one fist, and reaches for a chair.

Perhaps there might just be a place in the rafters for someone like him.


End file.
